Addicted to Love
by LovelyLivy
Summary: The steps in becoming addicted to a substance have been so carefully and calmly laid out by some. They never expected taking those steps to be such a dangerous obsession. Heavy T. TIVA.


_This is basically based upon my seventh-grade Substance Abuse Prevention class. They have compartmentalized the stages of abuse into these stages. Which, by the way, some of the things they say thoroughly piss me off. They are trying to shove down your throat that people who bully and make insufficient grades WILL do drugs some time in their life. Really._

_You've GOT to be kidding me. My biological father who I am not in contact with is addicted to alcohol and drugs. He was a genius. I kid you not. IQ of 157, made straight A's, was going to college and majoring in International Business with a minor in Spanish. I've been told he was the sweetest child growing up. My aunt, on the other hand, who is dyslexic, ADHD, and has a seriously hard time making colleagues happy, has never touched an alcoholic beverage (so she says). _

_Fine. Done with my rant. But, anyway, this is because I desperately needed to find something good about this concept. So, I applied it to TIVA._

_Enjoy._

_PS This leans toward the adult side of life (which I am DEFINITELY not). Do not judge my citrusy stuff too harshly, kitties. Please review? :)_

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Nope._

* * *

**Non-User**

**The lights are on, but you're not home  
your mind is not your own  
**

The aroma of cigarette smoke and alcohol was heavy in the air that Saturday night. The constant chatter of voices pervaded his ears in a near constant hum, and the clatter of glasses was like a symphony.

A bleach blonde with tacky clown-red lipstick painted upon her lips sat next to him, leaned provocatively towards him on her bar stool. She twirls her hair on her finger like a dingy school girl (which has never been his thing) and laughs annoyingly as she tells him stories of her something rather unimportant.

It's when she leans forward just a bit more that he truly asks himself why the hell he is doing this. He should be with Abby, at that party she begged him to attend. Kate would have been there too. Maybe he could've helped Gibbs with his boat tonight. He could use some company. Possibly even helping Probie grow a pair...

Hell, this girl's boobs weren't even that great.

He tries not to think about the fact that he's thirty five years old, and everyday that one knee gets a little weaker. That at the last high-school reunion he attended everyone was married. With kids. Because that's not him. Not Tony DiNozzo, the Italian Stallion.

He focuses on the minute freckle on the girl's clavicle. Memorizes the soft, smooth skin of her neck with a sudden zest because none of what his frat brother's have will ever be his.

So, he nods at her jokes. Flashes that grin that makes the panties drop. Reaches out and brushes his hand against Rachel-no-Rebecca's arm softly. The contact is soothing.

And in the morning, when he wakes and escapes the apartment she occupies without a goodbye, he'll pop a breath mint and crack his neck like it's all part of a daily job.

Anything to make the process easier.

Anthony refuses to allow himself to get emotionally close to anyone because he knows bad things happen to good people. He lives by this. And it's easy.

Until Kate dies, and he realizes he loved her a little bit.

* * *

**Experimentation**

**your heart sweats, your body shakes  
another kiss is what it takes  
**

She cracks her knuckles and throws her head back, yawning like some regal lioness on a hot summer day. His big head wants to ignore the tempting skin of her throat. That fiery light in her eyes. Dangerous light.

Because he knows Ziva David is certainly dangerous.

But, regardless of whatever his big head thinks the smaller one tends to decide otherwise. And small things do have power, in some situations. This is definitely one of them.

Pesky little things.

He sighs, and she immediately focuses all her attention on him. Those knowing, seductive brown orbs that can be so expressive at times. Gaging him, judging him. Challenging him.

He always did enjoy a challenge.

They have been partners for two weeks. They've been on this stakeout for twenty hours. They've engaged in eye sex for two minutes. In his imagination, it would only take him two seconds to jump across the van and make her see stars.

She clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes as she unties her hair from its firm up-do, and he enjoys watching those ebony curls fall onto her shoulders. He imagines the smell. The feel.

He bites.

"What are you staring at, DiNozzo?"

He smirks, looking at the full moon that glows like a lantern outside the window.

"Just a beautiful night, Officer David," he murmurs.

Of course, the forbidden fruit _always did _taste the sweetest.

* * *

**Recreational Use**

**You can't sleep, you can't eat  
there's no doubt, you're in deep  
**

It was a lovely day for a picnic. Jenny had said so. Proclaimed, in fact, that because of this simple thing Team Gibbs had the rest of the afternoon off.

Well...Team DiNozzo, now.

The grass was green, and the smell of flowers permeated the air. McGee sat to the side with a sandwich, Abby with a CafPow. Ducky admired the ducks in the pond nearby and threw them bread with Autopsy Gremlin every now and then.

She was the best sight of them all.

It wasn't like she could help it, either. He didn't want her to help it.

It was the first time he'd seen her in a dress. Ever. A sundress, yes. A solid color, brown. Not frilly in any sense of the word. Just sexy.

She read a magazine, and the sun made her ebony hair shine like he hadn't seen it before. It was easy. Peaceful. The kind of admiration that made him forget about the fact he still lied to her and the team about the undercover assignment. And made him forget Gibbs.

Watching her made him think about what life would be like in five, ten years. Made him think about what they would watch at movie night next Friday. Made him think that maybe he would ask her over again for the following night. Maybe.

Just maybe.

* * *

**Regular Use**

**your throat is tight, you can't breathe  
another kiss is all you need  
**

When he sees her again, he never wants to leave it. They've never been intimate, and yet seeing her face, hearing her throaty chuckle, makes him feel like they are one in the same.

Since the diner, nothing's been right. After that stupid ship, he's never wanted anything to change. He can't stand the thought of her seeing someone else, or leaving again. Or both.

It makes his gut twist into little bitty pieces and then piece itself back together. It makes him need a drink. Of something stronger than strong.

He loves it when she walks up next to him and brushes his arm. When she gets in his face because she's angry or annoyed. The way she draws out the last syllable of his name with that accent. How when he needs silence, he gets it.

She haunts his every breath like he does hers.

Because she won't deny.

She can't deny the way that when she lies next to Michael she often thinks of him and can't stop. This progression was so rapid and strong that she doesn't even have the decency to deny herself the unthinkable. She can't deny that she thinks about what those strong hands would do to her in the dark depths of night.

Skilled hands.

She basks in that smile and the feeling of knowing he has her back, even when half of her still believes it's just an illusion.

Then, things happen, and she realizes it was never just about the game.

They have both crossed a line that deems the point of no return, no matter the fact that neither knew it ever even existed.

* * *

**Dependant Upon Substance**

**your heart beats in double time  
another kiss and you'll be mine, a one-track mind**After Somalia. After Michael. After everything. The 'after' part is what always seems to get her.

It's erratic movement shakes her from nightmares and drags her under again, weaving her in and out of the murky waters of insanity, of agony. The thought. The fault. The realization.

Words have never come easy enough to her.

Sometimes she finds herself afraid to fall asleep, because she's afraid Saleem will be there when she awakens. And yes she is, in fact...afraid. Fear in fear itself was always her problem. Now it's the fright of men's grimy hands pulling her apart and ripping her at the seams mercilessly.

She clings to him, like a life raft. Her life raft.

In Paris, she showed him her scars. Opened the bathroom door after her hot steamy shower in the bathroom, still wet, wrapped firmly in a towel. She moved across carpeted space until she saw him and those curious green eyes.

She can't recall quite how, but the towel dropped at her feet eventually.

He never looked away.

She told him the stories of each one as if they were childhood fairytales her father would tell to her and Tali by night. Of princesses and dragons. And happily ever after's that would never come true in real life.

Eli gave them hope, and then ripped it away. That was his greatest flaw as a father.

At least Gibbs is a bit more honest.

She still tells him nothing of Somalia, however. Of all things, she'll never tell him anything of that. The simple fact that she knows he blames himself is enough. Because _she's _the one who told him she wished him dead.

Something she'll regret forever more.

He, on the other hand, has never been more...proud. Of this extraordinary woman who went against all odds and became...Ziva. It strikes him, then, as he watches her sleep that night, that he loves her.

He can't imagine his life without her, and he could never allow anyone to take her away. At this point, they are wielded so tight to one another that he feels time might literally stop. The world may end. Because without Ziva, any redeeming quality he has...is gone.

And he understands she's a messed up woman. But that makes her who she is. No shrink could ever fix that, because there is nothing to be fixed.

He's addicted; he's never, ever letting go.

It's physically (well,) impossible.

* * *

**Death**

**you can't be saved  
oblivion is all you crave  
**

He won't stop caressing her. Her cheek. Her breasts. Her stomach. Her hip. Lower. His touch is an electric current, and if she was a puddle of water she'd likely be fried.

Nothing stops them.

Sun filters in through wooden blinds and the clock changes over to noon. Sundays are always like this. Anthony Jethro sleeps soundly in his crib in the next room, the home is silent.

With each movement the bodies are slow, like in an underwater scene. Lazy bliss.

He brushes kisses across the her neck and she rolls her neck back and yawns like that mother lioness you see in animal documentaries. She chuckles throatily as he presses her into the sheets, already ready for another round of love-making.

A dog barks outside and a sprinkler goes off somewhere. Cars whiz by noisily, children play in the street. Life resumes.

They are dead to the world when they are like this.

**whoa, you like to think that you're immune to the stuff, oh Yeah **  
**it's closer to the truth to say you can't get enough, **  
**you know you're gonna have to face it, you're addicted to love**


End file.
